She stopped momentarily
before ascending the long staircase making a
mental note of all the times she came to the apartment complex,
climbed the stairs, and was stopped at every landing with questions
from the other tenants who knew her visiting hours and waited like
spies at their doors until they heard her coming. Once or twice she
changed the hour of her visit, but to no avail. They were always
there. She knew that today would be no exception. Before she arrived
at the old lady’s flat she’d have to face them.
She’d
have to listen to the laments about husbands with no work, kids
without enough to eat, money always needed. Then the questions,
“Signorina, can’t you get the office to give us a
bit
more of a stipend? My Mario can’t work, ya know. Gotta feed
the
kids, ya know.” Then the tone would become icy and eyes would
bulge, as veins popped about the neck until she pulled herself away
assuring everyone that she’d do what she could. It was like a
game she thought. She’d promise to look into their
situations,
they waited for the answer that never came, and then it would start
all over again. She, promising them resolutions, and they, expecting
nothing to be resolved.

She had been a Visitor exactly ten years. Her motives were pure
when she volunteered. It wasn’t about money or making herself
superior to those less fortunate. She always thought of the story of
the Good Samaritan, and this was how she thought of herself, as a
Good Samaritan helping those less fortunate. She wanted to give them
a kind word, a pleasant smile, a glimmer of hope for the future, but
for them it didn’t matter. They lived in the moment without
any
thought of tomorrow. It was their bellies that occupied their minds.
It seemed no matter how hard she tried to comfort them, to appease
the resentment built up against the “them”
they
always whined about, or their sly attempts to wheedle something,
anything, out of her, it was to no avail and the years had taken
their toll until she now went through the motions, and the weight of
an invisible stone on her back contributed to her growing fatigue.
“How had it come to this?” she thought.

At
the time when Don Ignazio asked for volunteers to give succor to
those less fortunate in the village, she responded to his heartfelt
plea. Having never married she didn’t have the responsibility
of husband or children that consumed one’s time. She had her
job at the Municipio
as a ragionere,
which was a little
more than a glorified clerk, for which she acquitted herself with
dignity around the others in the office. Other than her colleagues
she had no real friends, making for a rather lonely life that she had
gotten used to.The chance to do something more, to make some
difference in someone’s life, prompted her to see the priest
and become his first acolyte. A few days later she made her first
visit to an elderly couple who lived in a hovel along the via
Giardini that lay three kilometers beyond the Porta Napoli, the
southern most zone of the village. She noted the irony of the name
of the area, since it no more resembled a garden than a toad to a
prince. Thus began her mission as a Good Samaritan.

She
searched the height of the building as if by some magic she
might fly up to the flat and avoid having to breathe their air or
suffer the same questions and accusations again... This was one of
the older buildings with no elevator. The rent for the flats was
cheap enough, but the higher one went, the cheaper the fee. So the
old lady’s family had her moved to the top floor. The
Signorina had been coming to visit her for the past five years. A
crone with angry eyes, lips sucked into her mouth for the lack of
teeth with wisps of dead white hair protruding every where,
she’d
crackle obscenities at the signorina as she attempted to remove the
soiled diaper from her frail body in the rumpled bed. She smelled of
urine and old age. Her bones appeared to be battling to break through
her frail pale skin. Soaking a wash cloth in soapy, warm water, she
proceeded to sponge the old lady from head to toe. Patting her dry,
she put on a clean diaper and vainly tried to put the wild hair into
some sort of order behind her head.

That
completed, the visitor went about checking the medications in
what passed for a toilet. There was a bowl and a leaky sink with red
rust stains around the drain, while the old lady screeched that the
doctors were cheating her on her medicines. She wanted to denounce
them all,” the bastards! They want to kill me,
that’s
what they want!” She’d begin to sob and moan,
pulling at
her face with her hands. The woman would stop the hands before the
grimy fingernails scratched the shriveled skin. The old
lady’s
loud sobs continued. “ Signora, signora,… Please
don’t
pull at your face. You might give yourself a bad infection.”
The words came automatically since this was the thing the old lady
did every visit. “There, there, she crooned, as she patted
the
gnarled hands making sure not to come in contact with the filthy
fingernails. We will get something to eat, yes? Of course,
I’ll
warm up a cup of soup and you’ll have a bit of bread too.
Yes?”

She
left the bedside, and walked into the tiny kitchen. The old stove had
just two burners that were caked with old grease. On the opposite
wall was a small icebox. Above it, a clock with the hour handles
missing. She opened the door and found a bit of chicken and some
crusts of bread on the only shelf. In the tiny oven compartment she
found the tin pot she always used to warm up the soup. Above the
stove a shelf held a small box of pastina.
A few minutes later
the pot was boiling and a hand full of the pastina swirled around in
it. The old lady was quiet now. The visitor glanced at the bed; a
low rasping breath escaped the gaping mouth. The old lady was asleep.
When the pasta was done, she brought it to the bedside, woke the old
lady, and wrapped a soiled napkin around her thin neck, then blew on
the hot liquid as she spooned it into her mouth. Slowly, the bits of
pasta began to disappear from the bowl, and with each audible gulp
the old lady smacked her lips in pleasure. She cracked a smile that
distorted her face in a wild grimace.

The
visitor scanned the wretched room where everything appeared
untouched since the day the old lady had moved in. The long dark
drapery shut out the sun and created shadows all around the dirty
room. A small lamp was the only object on a battered night stand by
the bed. The bed was one of the old style, a deep mahogany head board
and cannon ball finials surmounting the wide foot board. When it was
new, it surely was a beautiful piece, but the years of neglect had
taken their toll. And the Signora lay in its rumpled sheets and
coverlets that practically enveloped her wasted body until she almost
disappeared beneath them.

Deciding
that she’d completed her services to the old lady, the
signorina proceeded to sweep her nape hairs in a steady motion so as
not to miss any stray piece into the bun in the nape of her neck. She
tucked the exposed tail of her blouse into the skirt and slowly put
on her jacket. The old lady had drifted off into another coma like
sleep. It was only the slight rise and fall of her chest that
attested to her being alive. Once more she scanned the room. She
went into the kitchen to make sure the stove was out and that the pot
was back in the oven compartment. She checked to see how much pastina
was left, because she might have
to bring a new box next week. She took a last glance at the bed and
left the flat.

An
hour later she entered her own flat. As usual it was silent and
she now thought cold, lacking the natural warmth a living space
should have because it’s inhabited. When her mother and
father
were alive things were very different. She hung up her jacket and
walked into the kitchen. She prepared her evening meal and sat down
at the round table tucked in the corner of the kitchen. She always
had mama to talk to. Mama died almost fifteen years ago and papa
followed her within a year. Since that time her life too seemed to
have ended. Always rather shy and introverted, she accepted the fact
that she was destined for spinsterhood, but papa would always say
that some young man would find her. Her vanity mirror said otherwise;
a middle aged woman, hair tumbling over her thin shoulders,
unappealing streaked with gray, stared back at her. Her lips had lost
the fullness of youth and her eyes were devoid of any radiance.

Lately
she began to feel the loneliness, the lack of real human
companionship more acutely. The quietude of her solitary life was
becoming too much to bear. Sometimes she’d stare, for what
seemed like forever, at her hands lying still in her lap. At these
times no thought wandered through her head. More often she felt like
a ghost roaming around the silent rooms with only the old photographs
to remind her of a life she once had. Her youthful dreams of the
sweet taste of love were now gone and all that remained were the
bitter lees of lost illusions. At those moments of her despair
she’d
close her eyes and remember a time long ago and lovely spring days
and flowers in bloom and light breezes wafting through the happy
home. By nine she lay in her bed listening to the silence, wishing
for sleep and then to wake to the gray dawn and begin another day.

Thus
was her life. And now even that bit of hope she wanted to give
to those others less fortunate had turned to dust. She could no
longer pretend to care. Their miseries had become hers. Their
petulance had seeped into her bones and left her drained of any
compassion or concern for them. She knew the time would come when
she’d no longer be able to continue trekking to the crumbling
buildings, smelling the decay of old age and witnessing lives lived
without hope.

The
week passed and the day of her scheduled visit to the old lady
had arrived. The visitor put the fresh box of pastinain her
shopping bag and set out for the apartments. As she traversed the
Piazza dei Giudici and headed down along the Corsotoward
the Porta Napoli she wondered what the old lady must have been like
as a young girl, loving a man, having children and taking care of a
home and family. Now she was abandoned by them and left to the
ministrations of a stranger. When she arrived at the building, she
paused a moment to reflect on a thought that had been running through
her mind for the past few days. A moment later she braced herself and
eyes focused on the swirling dark veins in the marble stairs ascended
the long flight. The usual people accosted her on the way, and she
answered them with the same promises and they with the same
disagreeable remarks retreated back into their flats.

The
old lady was in bed. A fine film of dust covered every exposed
surface, and the shadows crowded out the light. The signorina
removed her jacket and went about her routine of changing, washing
and dressing the woman. She adjusted her in the bed and fixed the
comforter neatly across it. Then she went into the kitchen and made
the pastina. Once again she awakened the old woman, placed a napkin
on her chest and began to spoon the soup into her mouth. A few
minutes later she wiped the signora’s chin, and stepped back
into the kitchen. She looked over to the bed and as usual the old
woman was asleep. The visitor washed the pot, placed it back into the
oven compartment, and put the bowl aside. She adjusted her blouse and
put on her jacket. She walked over to the sleeping woman and looking
down at her in peaceful and serene repose, she reached for the pillow
she had placed at the foot of the bed earlier and tenderly placed it
over the old lady’s face. The slight twitch of the frail body
beneath the blanket stopped after a moment and settled into the bed.